


100 days

by cuneifire



Series: Of revolts and revolutions [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 19th Century, Angst, Historical Hetalia, M/M, Napoleonic Wars, Restoration of the French Monarchy (1814), Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 05:02:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15017228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuneifire/pseuds/cuneifire
Summary: I am dead,France thinks as he pulls England into a bruising kiss.I am dead, and I would like you to make me feel alive again.It is, after all, you who killed me.In which France has a failed revolution and adjacent ideologies to contend with, and England is fond of knives.





	100 days

**Author's Note:**

> this thing has just been in my drafts, _taunting_ me for the last few weeks and god was it getting annoying. So voila, mes amis. Somehow writing france and england hatefucking/fighting is a great way of breaking writer's block lol.  
> Also, on only slightly more important manners, this is the second part of a series. You don't really need to read the first part (*inserts blatant self-advertisement here* _although you should_ ) but it won't really change much other than a few reoccurring metaphors.

June 1st, 1814

.

Candlelight flickers as France steps out of the staircase, looks out the window and peers to see who has arrived.

                He has a visitor, he thinks rather dully as his shoes scrape over the dull edged floor, wondering if he should answer the door or wait for some lowly paid servant of _Le Troisi_ _ème_ _Éstate_ to do it for him, as it seems his people are meant to serve him, despite his nature of being nothing _but_ his people.

The dimmed gray light of the hot day outside flickers through the windows of the palace, lighting up corners that France has not seen lit when Napoléon resided here. It is not Napoléon who resides here now, so the palace looks different; different parts are cleaned, different centrepieces emphasised, different pictures crooked, different jewels stolen.

He eyes the beautiful architecture slowly as he hears a door creak open; not the main one for royal guests. Rather odd, this one is usually for servants. But he supposes it doesn’t matter. Well, once, it didn’t. Now it does. But France doesn’t like to think that way.

                He glances down at the reflective light of the blood red glass of wine in his hand, seeing his reflection look back at him. He smiles, practicing for some reason that confidence that comes to him regardless.

                He winks at his reflection, and in the look of it all her can forget the bags under his eyes and the nick of a scar on his face.

His smile remains as he looks up with interest to who opened the door, perhaps a servant; most of them were either very kindly women or very pompous men, which led to interesting actions of all courts; perhaps it would be someone new who walked in that door today.

                And then his smile flickered as he stepped down and towards the door.

There, just right in front of his eyes, was a red coated, stiff postured figure that did not at all fit the scene of what was supposed to be in France’s newly restored monarchy’s palace.

                High collar, military dress, foreign power, _enemy._

The dimmed candlelight flickers.

And France watches as England steps into the room-his room, arched palace walls high above his head, proud expression and smug smile and set military posture stiff as rigid as always.

                He walks in las if France’s house is his own, like it is not enemy territory, like they were not at war merely months ago. Knives hitch onto the sides of his coats, slid into locks on his belt alongside pistols. Shiny hilts reflect in dimmed palace light, carved and elegant in way that make France want to grit his teeth and perhaps throw him onto the floor and stomp a boot on his _wicker clean_ clothes and dirty them.

“France,” He greet casually, fingers wrapped around his shiny bright new pistol (likely bought with France’s money). His eyes light up at the sight of France, with that sort of sadistic joy England is quite famous for.

Smirking, he pulls a cigar from between his teeth, blowing smoke up. It obscures France’s vision until his eyes refocus on England, who stares at him as if he has just seen victory in the smoke.

France supposes he has.

He straightens his shoulders as he feels England scrutinising him, wondering why he so often feels like hunching over now; not two months ago he’d stood at attention, values practically inscribed on his chest. Marching proud in an army whose greatness knew no end.

                But here, now, he is.

                England steps towards him, cigar dipping so it just brushes below his waist, threatening to burn the flammable fancy dark gray of his clothes.

                “Ah, Angleterre,” France says, keeping the greater portion of his bitterness locked away so it does not seep into his tone.

“What could bring your ever so pleasant company to mine?”

                England eyes him, smirk apparent in every feature of his staunchly held figure; his posture, his expression, his eyes, the twitch of his lips.

“Friendly concern.” England says, lips turning up ever so more slightly, leaning forwards with inquisition from the various paces away that he is from France.

                “I was wondering how you were doing with monarchial restoration, is all. To see if you are adjusting well.”

France raises an eyebrow, perhaps indelicately.

“Ah. So to taunt me, then.” _And what would you say if I wasn’t?_

                “France.” England says, vague look of offence painting his features. “My relation here is simply one of friendly concern.”

“As is your nature.”

                “I have always been quite the good friend, France. You just never bothered to find that out.” Step closer, step closer, step closer. France meets his gaze. Smiles, half genuine.

“Yes, you’re correct, I do not enjoy wasting my time.” He likely imagines the twitch of England’s fingers- almost to fists- at that.

The knife rests comfortably in England’s hand as he steps forwards.

                His weigh leans forwards so that he’s just slightly taller than France, heeled boots pushing them to straight eye level.

“Is that so.” England contemplates, watching France watch the light catch on the metal of the blade that rests near the belt on his waist.

                France tears his gaze from the blade, instead meeting England’s green eyes. “Yes.”

The knife in his enemy’s hand tilts forwards, side of the metal blade half an inch from marring his skin. He can _feel_ the coldness off of it.

                “You always have been quite good with time, haven’t you. Time and money, _non?”_

His clothes are rich despite his people’s suffering.

The clock is ticking, ticking, ticking, ticking and ticking, time passing, passing, passing.

                A knife almost settles to his skin, but he stops it, gripping the blade by the hilt, fingers curling over England’s paler ones, slowly pulling the knife out of his grasp. He watches, very slowly, as England stares at him with no small amount of a stupefied expression.

And then he tosses the blade to the ground.

He meets England’s mildly surprised gaze with equal sternness, trying to convince himself the smile upon his face is neither a grimace nor of spite.

“I did not come here to be placated, _Angleterre.”_ He spits out, wiping the blood from his raw bitten lips, setting his eyes on England in a half marred glare.

                “Oh.” England says, smile tilting up on his splittingly unpleasant to look at visage, light catching in his eyes in way that makes them turn red in the dimmed light of the palace. “Then why did you meet me, then?” _But I did not, you fool. You came here- into my house, into my home, into my_ empire, _how dare you say_ I _intruded?_

“I came here-“ France tests out very carefully, watching his words as if they are enemy spies ready to turn on him- for that is what they are, words are deceiving creatures, they twist and turn and become more than what they are supposed to be at the slightest hint of hope.

Perhaps that is why England is so fond of them.

                “You came here for what?” England says, apparently amused at France’s lack of words.

_That baise d’un bâtard can put his smugness where he puts his money._

“I arrived to meet you-“ He says carefully, watching England with precaution. Despite his high posture and stiff-as-a-board expression, France can read him.

                The slight twitch in his rather enormous eyebrows when France talks, how his fingers brushed lower over his gun when France had stepped forwards instead of backwards, the trivial blushing of light red over his cheeks.

England wanted him, it was honestly painful obvious.

                “-I arrived here to meet you, in order to discuss why it is you are here. You are in _my_ house, and I would appreciate knowing as to why.  Is that abnormal to you, Angleterre? Oh, I suppose it is. You do have a tendency to greet your guests with a bullet, now, don’t you?” France says, and he can see in a flash of England’s eyes that he’s thinking of the same thing France is.

                The last time France saw England, it was across the room, when a green gaze flashed to him for just half a second.

And the time before that, it was on the other side of a musket.

England’s smile dips for just the split of a second; it returns in full force as the hand that’s slowly been dipping lower snaps up to the handle of the perhaps fifth knife at his side.

                He brushes his bright red coat down, ruffles feathering out under his harsh touch.

His gaze is equally harsh as he shoves his weigh forwards until he’s toe to toe with France, just barely staring down at him with such disgust, such determination, such superiority, contempt evident as he speaks.

 “Is that all, France?” He says, gaze running over France with languish. The smirk curls upwards, the cigar in his fingers flipping over.

                _No, Angleterre, I wanted to see your wonderful face one more time before I forget who I am entirely,_ he thinks with no small hint of bitterness. His enemy’s gaze matches his own; and suddenly he’s somewhere else, some field far away, long, so long ago, when he and England were the same height.

 _Dieu,_ he thinks suddenly as England’s fingers catch on the dirtied buttons of his shirt; perhaps to pull him down into a kiss, or a punch.

 _Dieu, aide-moi._ He asks, wishing to close his eyes and be somewhere, anywhere else. He’d take _La Terreur_ over this, guillotine be damned.

                “Angleterre,” He breathes out, eyes closing because he can’t look at it; at England’s fancy cigar, at the elegant monarchist badges decorating his scar torn chest, at his smirk and his fucking too green eyes.

                His hand drops next to England’s, and in his bony fingers he grasps the cigar, meeting his enemy’s eyes and he brings it to his lips.

He has not had a proper cigar since 1789, but now the taste is too bitter. He cannot enjoy it, when he thinks of whose lips it has been on before, of what it represents, of what it _is._

 _Dieu,_ he thinks with smoke on his lips, half a prayer, half a curse. _For this one day, let me feel alive again._

He receives no reply.

                Very calmly, with hands that notably do not shake, he drops the cigar, and stomps his decorated shoe over it.

 _Opulence._ He thinks as England stares at him with disbelief, lips skewed downwards without an utterance of elegance. The hypocrite.

                And then he smiles, vicious light returning to his eyes with vivacity. “Ruining my cigar is perhaps the most of a threat you pose to me right now, France.”

_It has made me weak._

Head tilts. Eyes strike to the cigar. Red.

                Blood.

_No,_

“Is it?”

_It has made me inhuman._

_“The King is dead,” Proclaimed in loud, jubilant words, like a smashed diamond upon a ruined crown. Through the streets, to joyous cries, to smiles and blood spilling over the gleaming silver blade of the guillotine._

“Yes, you seem rather incapacitated right now.” Snarky, snide, vicious, a perfidious piece of work, England is.

_“France is d-“ Same tone, same joy, same dulled pain behind the eyes. Green, unnaturally green, always green._

“I am not incapacitated, _mon petit Angleterre.”_ He says dully, those unnaturally green eyes meeting his, emotionless. It hurts; it’s too dark outside for this, the light makes him want to pull back.

                “I am dead.” He proclaims instead, to an empty room and a person who he despises, feeling as lacking as a jail cell the day after the execution.

“You look quite alive to me. Not particularly handsome, well- that’s a different matter, but-“ England seems less than impressed by his break in sanity, arms crossed, leaning back on his heels.

                France continues regardless. “I am dead, and I would like you-“ he paused over the words before deciding he could not, for all his near immortal life, bring himself to care. “-To make me feel like I am alive.”

England pulls back at that, affronted expression visible to the slightest movement, rolling his glass green eyes to the high arched Baroque ceiling.

                “I should have known you’d lost your mind. That Revolution did something to you, didn’t it.”A statement, not a question; it was never a question with England.  He always had all the answers, even if they were wrong. As they usually tended to be.  

“Yes. And I would argue years of being told my people are wrong for the sake of a select, _rich,_ few would do more damage than a little bleeding, but that may hurt your feelings, which as we all know you are very sensitive about.” He tries to make himself care about this, about the consequences, about the fact that England has five visible knives on him and at least two times that concealed, France would not hesitate to guess. He likes to show off when he wins.

But he can’t. Make himself care, that it. He is sure he could wear knives just as England does, although it would not serve much of a purpose.

“You never do quite think yourself capable of being wrong, do you now, Angleterre.” He says, steps further out onto the slim edge of a cliff he balances on.

England’s gaze snaps to him.

                “Fuck you.” He says. _Yes,_ France thinks, eyes fixed on him, and falls off.

 For all their arguing and shoving and warfare and whatnot, it’s very easy to fall into these patterns; rinse, wash, repeat, over and over until he sees nothing but bleeding, bloody red and _fucking_ bright, empty green.

“If you say so.” France say, grabs him by the fancy hooked military garb, and shoves him against the edged, high architecture wall, so all the little decorations and pieces crook into his back, make him feel just the slightest bit in pain, a sliver of what encapsulates France.

                The agony of luxury, is it not.

Their lips crash together, nothing like the languid thoughts and kisses of the Enlightenment; no, this reminds him of battlefields from centuries past.

_The slice of a glimmering blade. Victoire. England underneath him, hands pinned to his side. France watches blood trail down his cheek._

_“France, what are you-“ England’s green, green, wide eyes staring up at him, disarrayed clothes pressing to his palms. Lips parted, expression stiff not out of formality but out of fear._

_A smile, curving up on France’s face as he leans down, crumpling dirty peasant rags in his manicured nails._

_“I did not fight a hundred-year war for nothing, Angleterre.”_

England tastes like ash, he thinks as he grabs him and pulls him aside- _anywhere, anywhere, dieu, now, anything but_ this _-_ into the nearest room, slams England against the door and then breaks the kiss to pull him off and violently kick it shut.

                He blinks, feeling there should be something blanking out in his mind, but he has done this so many times that fucking England is as routine as fighting him.

                “You truly can’t kiss, you know.” Insult.

“And you truly can’t win a war.” Return insult, green eyes sparkling with beautiful, beautiful menace, like the glinting knives on his belt, like death, like _living._

_(England is alive, and France is jealous)_

“Tell me that in a few years.” Insult, again, back and forth.

                “Of course I will, because it’ll still be true.” _Not as clever as usual, Angleterre_ , he thinks as England raises his eyes to France, obviously expecting a response.

France gives him none, instead pulling him back into a kiss, relishing in the heat of forgetting, the way his enemy’s lips meld against his, the way teeth scrape his tongue, the way daggered fingers dig through layer of court clothes to mar pain into skin.

                France pulls away, briefly, noticing but not paying attention to the high flush on England’s pale cheeks.

“ _Angleterre,”_ He says, half gasping despite this being nothing, despite having done this a million times before. _One gasps when they’re drowning._ “Bed-“ He says, and then steps backwards onto just that as understanding lights in England’s eyes, half menacing.

                He watches his enemy hit the bed, blond hair splaying across the pristine white of the couvertures.  Pale skin contrasted with red, and white, _but no blue, a proper revolution needs blue tu sais, Angleterre you never could properly manage anything now could you, you’re always a mess- just look at the disorganized collection of personal interests you call an empire-_

England grasps him by the collar, pressing their lips together again, his uniform is pleated and clean under France’s fingers; the bed is soft and comfortable and makes him want to dig his hands into the mattress’ spring and tear them out and fashion them into appropriate weapons and take down the whole of Europe with.

And it’s unbearable, so he grips England harder to forget.

                France leans down to press their lips together again, scattered and ragged breathing breaking the silence of the palace walls, kiss taking all his air because in this very moment, oxygen does not seem necessary. Nothing seems necessary, truly, other than this; the bed, England, and the absolutely pitiful lacking inside him.

Pulling away, England stifles what is likely an indication of pleasure- he always holds himself back. He does so with a of grip his fingers into the decorated clothes that France is draped in, pulling back to brush brief kisses across his jaw, the line of his throat, the skin just where one would put their hands to choke, the scar the guillotine cut just a few short years ago.

                England’s thumb brushes over the short scar under his eye- the one he had given France five years ago, in the arid plains of Spain’s house. His eyes are half lidded, drunk with something that is possibly power and possibly insanity and likely both as he leans further down.

It’s not love, France thinks as England dips his mouth to bite the point of his neck covered in old bled red scars. It’s not even lust, France thinks as he looks up into England’s eyes. They’re green, painfully so, to the point where France wants to never look at him again, _ever_ ; the traces and lines of his expression, the scars and curves of his lithe body that France could trace by memory now; he’d given most of them, after all.

It’s barely sex, he thinks as he shoves England onto his back, straddles him and slowly unbuttons the shiny little gold slivers holding him together.

 “France-“ England moans, eyes fully open, more a hiss than a moan, more a declaration of war than an admission of anything.  

                France resists the temptation to rip off his shirt; the decorated rich fabric and military badges and layers upon layers of decadence.

_Do not ruin valuable things._

_Standing at the Bastille, people around him, wicked smile and shouts._

_Do not ruin valuable things._

_Picket, gun, righteousness._

_Do not ruin valuable things._

_Destroy them._

Then, after.

_‘Restrain yourself, you insane demagogue.’_

_You are not that anymore._

_You are our country, a proper monarchy, not some meddle of peasantry and military. Fix your clothes, wash yourself, what has become of our country._

_Is that really what this country is?_

_Well then, we will have to make you into something more acceptable._

                So he unbuttons the shirt carefully, precarious not to even slightly stain the snow white ruffles and shiny buttons.

                And then throws it to the floor, hoping it coats in dust, despite the fact that he knows this corner of the palace is cleaned daily. The king is fond of it, fond of luxury. _Who is not?_

Looking at England’s (finally) bare chest, he mentally maps it out. The scars; the ones he had given and the ones he hadn’t, the ones that cut up over his sternum, the ones that touch his ribs, the ones from rifles, the ones from knives. There’s a birthmark that looks like a bruise, just under his collarbone. France kisses it, teeth digging into skin.

“I hate you.” England breaths out.  France swipes his tongue over slightly salty skin in agreement, dragging his uncut nails over the front of England’s chest, watching his expression twist and curl up in his denial of his own pleasure.

                “Fr-“ He cuts himself off at the first syllable, teeth gritted, raw bottom lip between rows of crooked white. He’s gotten better at that over time. “-Hate- _you-“_ He says again when France places a hand to his thigh, his hand gripping France’s shoulder with the force of an indestructible _Grande Armée._

France traces the lines of his tight cut trousers, dark grey; definite military wear. The pressing bulge in France’s hand, which he traces over lightly, hand hoovering above the less shiny buttons on his trousers.

                “I-“ England spits out as France lays him with a perfunctory gaze.

“ _hate-“_ he says when France rubs a hand against his erection, watching his cheeks flush and lips part, trying to clamp his teeth down on his lips, drawing blood that trickles down his chin. _Just like four hundred years ago-_

                “ _-you-“_ He finally manages, unsteadily meeting France’s gaze. And then he reaches down, flicks open the button’s on France’s trousers, cuts a steady line of pain as he drags his hand down to France’s cock, uses his other hand to grab him by the lapel into a bruising kiss, popping the button’s on France’s shirt, ruining it.

“I know, Angleterre.” France replies dully.

The shirt is worth hundreds of francs, golden stifled coins.

_Good riddance._

He’s caught off guard as pleasure sparks through him; heat catching in his hips as his lips clash with England’s, hot heat of his tongue sliding over France’s teeth in a meagre excuse for a kiss, in which England’s eyes are wide open and so are France’ and France is half ready to just let England fuck him and give up on the foreplay. _What has become of me, that even this is not pleasurable anymore._

He watches as England still holds his gaze, grabbing France violently by the shoulders, half hard cock grasped in his hand; manicured nails and gun calloused fingers. Rough and indelicate and precisely what- _Dieu-_ precisely what he needed.

                “ _Angleterre-“_ Is all he gets out before he cut off; hard callused fingers clamp down over his lips, and he turns his eyes upwards to find England staring down at him, teeth bared.

“Just. Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”  He says, fingers digging into France’s lips, forcing past his teeth; it’s unpleasant and painful and reminds him of anything but the luxury silk laid out under his back.

England’s fingers taste like gunpowder and cigar ashes; like he’s spent more time handling a gun than anything worth a fortune; like it’s been three hundred years since he dressed in silk robes and redrawn what he is to please other and become some high life fancy aristocrat. He does not taste like he is better than everyone else, his nails slick in spit and cut flesh just like any other- human. nation. What it is they are.

But France can see it when he bothers to look up; the stubborn grit of his teeth and untiring frustration, complete distain for all that is not his, all that is not up to his standards, for all he does not control. He is the very mark of monarchy, of _Captivité, Inegalité, Dévision._

And France hates him for it, more than he hates him for anything else in the godforsaken world, as he pins his red covered wrists to the feathered mattress underneath him, crashes their lips into a kiss so he can taste England’s blood in his mouth; salty and like poison, the flesh and bone of England’s fingers caught between their teeth. Pins England’s wrist underneath the crook of his elbow, turns his wrist to the curve of his enemy’s hips and flicks open the buttons of his gray military pants, wishing to slice open that blood coloured jacket of his and throw it into the incinerator, perhaps along with its wearer.

                Legs straddle near his hips, the hand not wet with France’s spit and covered in teeth marks intents on pulling down France’s undergarments and pants in one pull.

 _He’s very utilitarian like that. A bit like Prussia._ He was nothing but a Germanic when France first met him.

                He’s different now, though.

He brings up a hand to clamp knuckles around England’s wrist, slowly taking fingers off his mouth, pressing his teeth around his enemy’s index in a bite before tugging at his wrist.

                Fury lights in England’s eyes.

“What are you-“ He says, to which France answers with half a smile as England brings his hands up to France’s hair, fingers combing into his still-long hair, sharpened nails digging into his scalp.

                Sex with England always leaves marks, even little one.

England’s eyes light with a burning understanding, stroking France’s member with a lack of delicacy that France would normally spit venom at him for, uneven enough France wonders why he is even aroused at the idea of bedding this hooligan.

                Improper, a bad idea, incredibly painful and utterly stupid.

 _Perfect,_ France thinks as his eyes meet England’s, face screwed up unpleasantly in concentration.

                England shifts his weigh forwards, leaning back on heels and pulling pain sparks in France’s scalp and he parts France’s thighs. A shiver courses through France despite the heat when England runs his hands up to rest low on France’s hips.

                The pain in his scalp eases as England’s hand comes to fall besides his head, bringing his mouth to lavish kisses down France’s chest, grazing a hand over France’s nipples which he shudders to suppress a moan, kisses dipping lower until there’s wet lips on the sharp, (starved) jut of his hipbone, wet heat around him.

Lips press around his cock, and France looks down.

The great British Empire does not give _les fellations_ unless he feels in complete dominance.

                ” _Foutre de toi,”_ France whispers under his breath as England lavishes his cock with kisses, hot warmth taking him deeper. He looks down, feeling a sudden shivering cold hit him as England pulls away to stares down at him, lips coated in light white pre cum.

Fingers slide into him, _and what of what I could’ve been Angleterre what about that,_ head tilting back into the feathered pillows, feeling England reach up before sliding into him, pumping fingers in and out, fast. He’s impatient; never enough time to love, only to fuck. That, France never taught him.

_Maybe he should’ve._

England’s eyes open and lips screwed up with concentration, eyebrows furrowed, face glistening just slightly with sweat. Or maybe it’s the light.

For some reason, that makes France want to laugh, despite everything. _Angleterre, you really never do learn,_ he finds himself thinking as he feels England’s cock press at his entrance, thrusting up into him, rapid pace and _make time._

                Hips snap down on his, taking him with somehow jagged fluidity; England is not delicate with his making of _amour,_ especially when he is not making love but rather taking it. He is like that; all the puzzles pieces that do not fit together, pieces who should’ve destroyed each other but instead cut and sharpened until touching England was like cutting flesh on glass.

Hands grip in his hair again; England’s lips part with orgasm, chest heaving as he slows down, coming into France one finally time before pulling out, sweat dripping off his brow.

He stares down, at France; France wonders if he is seeing someone, or something else. ( _Because France does, he looks up at England and sees something akin to being alive and it’s like a knife repeatedly slammed into him, blood spilling out all over the floor, red like revolution)_

A thumb rests on his still hard cock; England runs scrapped nails over it before giving a few more pumps. Heat courses dully through him, spilling out onto England’s hand, which he wipes with no slight disgust as he has many times before.

 _Perhaps I have truly died my little death,_ he thinks as his vision shakes; maybe that’s England, maybe that’s the devil.

But it’s neither confirmed nor negated when weight collapses next to him, hair tangling and mussing under Frances hands as England stares up at the sky; perhaps with regret, perhaps with guilt, or something else France simply cannot bother himself to care for. Perhaps he should attempt to comfort England, but the truth of the matter is that he simply cannot bring himself to, to do anything more than is simply to stare up at the too-decorated ceiling above him until the breathing of the green eyed monster beside him slows to a pace, and to think.

France _hates_ thinking. It tends to be depressing.

                But thought comes nonetheless, and more and more he finds his gaze drifting to his enemy, as the moon shifts in the sky and the thoughts do not cease.

_Monarchy- but what about the people, the third estate, what of Les Droits de l’Homme, what of humanity, what of empires-_

_What of perhaps they are not the sam-_

_Could it be-_

_Glory and morality are incompatible entities-_

_Amérique was right, the government should represent the people-_

England sleeps so prettily; like many things about him, it contradicts, juxtaposes, is so incredibly, painfully real and not so all at once.

                His hair splays over his nearly closed eyes, pale moon light aesthetic over his light skin, breathing steady, easy pace, so certain in what he is, what he always will be. France is jealous.

_An enemy. A tyrant. An imbecile. An oppressor. A monarchist._

_The last one demonstrates the other._

“You love your monarchies, do you not.” He says evenly, watching England curl up next to him, like a caged animal despite being the one to make the cage and the one to walk into it. His eyes are half lidded; he could be awake or asleep.

France is too sick of it all to care. The taste in the back of his throat resembles that of bile.  “I bet you bed them, do you not, Angleterre? I bet, two hundred years from now, you’ll still have them; a little slave to people always bigger than you, like you were always meant to be.”

England’s eyes flutter open, gaze striking hazily through what France assumes is sweet dreams of Empire, of crushing others under the black heeled boots he is still wearing. “And what of you, France?” He slurs slightly, lips curled up in such a smile France believes England probably thinks he is sleeping. Dreaming, really.

                France smiles, nothing more than a slight lift of his bruised and kiss swollen lips, watching hair fall over England’s too green eyes.

“That is not what the world is meant of me, Angleterre. I am destined to fight for the impossible until it arrives.”

“-And when it does, I will take you with me, even if I must drag you through it every step of the way.” He adds the last words as an afterthought, barely a conscious occurrence.  

England raises a brow, obviously unbelieving, cynic that he is. “I am dreaming”, he states simply, through half sleep and cruel happiness, eyes fluttering shut, lashes dipping against his pale skin, just a pale flash of green.

France smiles at him, and England repeats, like twisting knives into flesh, “I am dreaming.”

And to convince him of that, France leans forwards and presses on his lips the softest, sweetest kiss he can imagine.

_A lover, perhaps._

The feeling in his chest is even more empty.

He does not sleep that night, and by the time he only briefly shuts his eyes England is gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Notes  
> -The treaty of Paris or the [First Peace of Paris ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Treaty_of_Paris_\(1814\))(May 30th 1814) was signed between France and the UK, Prussia, Russia and Austria (the Sixth coalition), after the first defeat of Napoleon, after the military general’s seizure of power during the French Revolution of 1789.The treaty dictated France’s borders return to those prior to 1792, recognize the independence of states they had taken control of during the Napoleonic Wars, and restore the Bourbon monarchy to power.  
> -France is in the [ Palace of Versailles, ](https://www.tourist-destinations.com/2014/09/palace-of-versailles.html) a palace of which Napoleon resided in during his time as emperor, which was originally that of the monarchy’s, and which was used by the monarchy afterwards during the restauration.  
> -Title is a reference to the subsequent 100 days, in which Napoleon again seized control for a brief period of time, before being sent to exile on an island, this time St. Helena off the coast of Africa.  
> Also this is my first (published) attempt at writing smut, so if anyone's got any feedback please tell me. thanks! :)


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